Need You Now
by ludwigsgirl97
Summary: Destiel songfic to "Need you now" by Lady Antebellum. Basically Dean is all alone in Lisa's house post season 5, and Cas is feeling lonesome in Heaven. warnings: mentions of suicide Now with 100% less lyrics, to satisfy the powers that be. :(


_**AN: So apparently I can't have songfics, or the mysterious "they" gets upset with me. This is to the song "Need you Now" by Lady Antebellum, so please listen to it if you don't know it and otherwise, enjoy the fic. I'm sorry to have caused any inconvenience. (Really, copyright infringement on a site that is nothing but stealing characters and using them for your own ends? REALLY?)**_

Dean hadn't called in ages, and he hadn't heard his prayers either. Not that Dean was known for his regular praying schedule, not even believing in God until an angel came down and convinced him in the middle of the biblical apocalypse, but the fact that nothing had come up was either a lie meant to disguise a dislike of Castiel, or more serious than anything they had encountered thus far. When you were a Winchester, when life was good it mean a Djinn was eating your soul, or worse. He and Dean had been tense lately, seeing as, in Dean's eyes at least, Castiel had a part, no matter how small, in Sam's trip to Hell with Michal and Lucifer. Of course, the part where he had everything to do with Dean still breathing wasn't considered, and if it was, it was as a negative. Dean would rather be dead than living without his baby brother, of that much anyone who knew him could be sure. Angel wards still resided on his ribs, so the angel was left unable to watch him as much as he would like, although the homely scenes where he was raking leaves, or finally getting that pie he'd been after at Lisa's were more than hurtful for the only piece of his old life left. The only contact in the phone that still had a living person on the other end was Dean, and it remained highlighted as Castiel hesitated.

Maybe Dean just didn't want his company any longer; perchance those few moments in which he had said that he enjoyed it were simply deluded shams, and he wished to move on with his life, free of demons, or angels. It wasn't as if Cas had ever been the best of friends; he was emotionally unsupportive if nothing else due to the fact that he didn't understand them, and he required constant, often awkward explanations. The fact that he didn't understand sarcasm, and often used references from a history older than Dean's species didn't make it any less odd, or the fact that he had to pop out on random intervals for battles. He often gave the angel many of the same speeches as he had once given Sam, as if Castiel, a warrior of God, was simply another charge for him to secure in an ever changing world; one which he could now replace with a normal life with a wife and son. He probably didn't ever even think on how Castiel was doing. Not that he ever left the rebel's thoughts...

Cellphones didn't have service in Heaven, apparently. No towers would do that; and this left the messages Cas sent Dean (so that he would get it no matter what time it was in his time zone, and so Cas didn't have to speak the words aloud), they weren't sent.  
"I am lonely Dean, and I miss you. May I come visit you?-Cas" they would always read something along these lines. He didn't question the messages not being in his "sent" box, because they weren't in his outbox either. An angel's death let off an enormous amount of energy, and all of that wiped a phone's memory clean. Cas just always put in the two numbers he knew by heart: Sam's and Dean's.  
It also left him thinking that the messages, sent in times of pain and desperation, went unread, and thusly that Dean didn't care about him anymore.

Dean downed another glass, not knowing what number it was, but that he really was an alcoholic to loose count before 5o PM. He stared at the ceiling, angel proofing carved in and painted over, just to be safe. It meant that Cas couldn't pop in anytime he wanted, but dammit knocking wasn't that hard. Using a door may have been unnecessary in most situations for the angel, but he knew how, and GOD, how Dean wished he would use it right about now. Just bust it off the hinges, even if that meant it had to be fixed before Lisa got home from her week long trip to see her parents in New York, having taken Ben with her and left Dean to stew in his own pain and self-loathing. He wanted him to waltz in, light bulbs shattering, but miraculously not setting anything on fire, while black shadow-wings sprouted from a back not nearly as broad as that trench coat made it seem. He'd gladly repair every electrical wire in the state just to have his best friend by his side again.

Dean shook his head; Cas was fighting a civil war in Heaven, he didn't have time for mundane human companionship like he had in the old days. The last things he needed was more angst and problems to fix from the hypocritical king of chick flicks. Dean had never really been a good friend, anyway; calling Cas when he had a problem, but never just asking him how he was, or what the weather was like where he had come from. Cas had star-trekked him to save his parents, even though it nearly killed him, and he knew this would be the effect, and Dean had insisted, knowing their would be painful side-effects for his "friend". No, if Castiel was really as smart as he appeared, he would have forgotten all about Dean Winchester.

It was well into the night when Dean collapsed onto the kitchen floor, bottle of whiskey in one hand, his copy of their pre-Lucifer group photo in the other. Cas just looked confused as to why they had told him to say cheese, and everyone else was smiling, covering their terror of what was to come with masks of enjoyment. He was waisted, and nothing in his head made sense but the feeling of loneliness that was stronger than it ever had been before. He found himself praying to Castiel, after a thousand messages and texts had failed.  
"Cas, man, I need you. I know this is sappy bullshit and you got better to do upstairs, and it's more important than me...but please, if you even listen to me anymore, I just need a few minutes..." he sobbed, dropping the bottle, glass crashing around him. He picked up a shard, not caring for the gashes it created on his palms. In the light of the full moon, it looked oddly appealing, and a voice within him called for more; to spill all of his blood into the moonlight to make the same glistening crimson.

"I know this is a low blow, man, but I'm gonna see you one way or another...Are you comin' down here, or am I goin' up there?" he slurred, already hardened in the spur of the moment choice. He had promised Sam he wouldn't hunt himself to death or try to rescue him. He'd never said anything about cutting his wrist like a Thanksgiving turkey, and what good had his living ever done anyway? The apocalypse wouldn't have needed stopping without him, and Sam would have been able to live happily. Death really was the best way, and he wasn't bad conversation, either. He started counting down from sixty, waiting with calm intent.

Castiel had told his garrison that he was done with Dean; his weakness wasn't such anymore and he could care less for the human he had once protected. It had been for the principle of free will, not the man himself, he had rebelled, and while it was all lies, they bought it. He'd made quite the impassioned speech about how he was removed from the Winchester's leash; though truth be told he didn't see the "leash" as any form of oppression, but rather a direct line he sorely missed.  
So when he heard Dean's desperation, and his ultimatum, his thoughts were not of going or not going, but rather of calling Balthazar to cover for him, or just go and leave the garrison on it's own for a while.

When his count reached 45, Dean almost puked, and not just from alcohol. Even his life wasn't worth Cas coming down and helping. He had Sam in the cage, and Cas in the attic, but no one was worth living for in the living room, and Dean couldn't get the taste of guilty failure from him mouth, masking the whiskey.

Castiel kicked in the door at 58, and with a wave of his hand, the bottle, and Dean's flesh, was whole once more. Without a word, the angel pulled him close, careful not to crush any organs but putting enough force in it to show him that Cas wasn't going anywhere soon. He rubbed soothing circle's on the human's back as he sobbed, both of them, one not distinguishable from the other, until Dean fell asleep.  
Castiel carried him to bed and watched him through the night, and this vigil is where he would be found in the morning when Dean woke up, confused for a moment as to how he had gotten there and why he didn't have a hangover. Not that this was only for the hunter's benefit; the hand slipped calmly into Dean's was more than Cas ever could have hoped for.  
FIN


End file.
